


Extra Credit

by wooden_turtle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ADHD Bellatrix, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Gen, Good Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Teacher Bellatrix, Workaholic Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22761253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wooden_turtle/pseuds/wooden_turtle
Summary: When Professor Bellatrix sends her a note to come to her office out of schedule, Hermione doesn't expect their meeting to involve tea and life advice.Rated Teen for some mild swearing.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 9
Kudos: 160





	Extra Credit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoaringJe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoaringJe/gifts).



> This fic can be read as both friendship and platonic romance. Pick whatever you like best!

"Granger,

My office, after class. Extra credit, as per.

—Black."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Typical Professor. Obviously, it went without saying that ‘extra’ credit didn’t mean she had room to decline. Never mind that she was in her O.W.L. year, and this piece of parchment that had just popped into existence between her tea and shepherd’s pie meant that all her plans for the evening had just gone to waste. She sighed as she put the folded parchment into her bag, mentally rescheduling work on her Potions essay to the empty slot after-tomorrow that she kept just for this kind of emergencies and her Transfiguration practice to tomorrow’s morning before breakfast. She’d have to set her alarm charm to half five. Again. Also, her light reading session had just waved her goodbye until at least Saturday afternoon. Dammit, she had been looking forward to this.

Not that she wasn’t looking forward to meeting Professor today, out of schedule. As Hermione went on her way to class, grumbling to herself good-naturedly, she couldn’t help but wonder why the DADA professor decided to change plans. They actually had a curriculum for her extra lessons written out—(Hermione prided herself in that achievement; no fucking way Professor would bother with any organizing if not for her Slytherin-worthy cunningness combined with shameless badgering)—and her research project was moving at a steady pace, she’d even got slightly ahead of the schedule. Frowning, she decided not to worry yet. If she really wanted to worry about something, it could be Professor Flitwick’s infamous pop quizzes.

Even as she recited the spells to change an object’s colour, trying and failing to not go on a tangent about their Arithmantic structure and how one could use its understanding to create more complex hues (“Outstanding as always, Miss Granger!”), she still couldn’t get the message out of her head.

She really liked Professor Black. Well, not _like_ liked (though she couldn’t deny the woman was gorgeous), rather… Was it possible for someone to have a crush on a person’s competency? Because if so, Hermione certainly did. It had been a bit embarrassing (okay, a bit _more_ embarrassing than usual) when the woman showed up on their first lesson of the fourth year, completely ignoring awestruck gasps of the students, and proceeded to shred to pieces the curriculum they’d had had, demonstrating why and how it was lacking.

Naturally, Hermione had leapt to defend their previous professors (well, Professor Lupin, at least), conveniently ignoring the fact that most of her knowledge came from outside their lectures. Naturally, Professor took up the challenge. She presented Hermione with a hypothetical situation (“You are in the forest. You don’t remember how you got here, and your only possession is your wand. The forest appears to be magical. You’re hungry, and it’s getting dark.”) and made her seek her way out of danger, commenting on her every decision, detailing mistakes and explaining alternatives.

By the end of the lesson, the class was utterly enthralled, Hermione’s tally of fatal mistakes had climbed into the thirties, Black and she had twice gone on a theoretical tangent and agreed to disagree for the time being (“What in Merlin’s name have you been reading, your terminology is atrocious”), and Hermione had been pretty sure she’d be on the verge of tears if she wasn’t so caught up in problem solving. After a curt “So, surely you see we’ve got work to do, and you better have been taking notes”, Professor then completely surprised Hermione with a casual “Good job, Granger”.

Embarrassingly, it took Hermione the better part of the year to realize that between knowing the right answer and having the mindset to discover it, the latter was far more preferable.

Anyway, a couple weeks into the fourth year, Black had decided that some things just couldn’t work and exempted Hermione from the DADA lectures (not the practicals, though). Hermione was furious at first, but she realized that with both her and Professor’s tendency to get caught up in debating increasingly advanced topics, the rest of the class didn’t have a chance in hell to learn anything. She begrudgingly agreed, the offer made much more generous by an extensive list of O.W.L. DADA topics along with the best resources to learn them from, compiled by Black herself no less. And, as she had been getting ready to leave (free period meant the Library, of course), an off-hand: “By the way, Granger. Be in my office at six, if you will. I’ve an extra credit project in mind for you.”

Hermione put a respectable hundred feet between herself and the Defence classroom before she allowed herself to let out a high-pitched squeal.

Since then, Hermione had co-authored (did the tedious calculations for, really) a couple of papers that dabbled into the theory of some duelling spells while still staying faithful to their practicality—an impressive feat for a fifteen-year-old Hogwarts student, to say the least. She was now working on her own project: a versatile spell that could be easily cast in duel conditions and would allow for moving objects, with fine control, in virtually any direction. Kind of like a hybrid between the Levitation, Summoning, and Banishing Charms, except she also needed to optimize the energy expenses and the incantation. There was so much Arithmancy involved she had to create another (thankfully un-optimized) spell just to perform the bulk of the calculations.

She loved every second of it.

That said, they didn’t only talk about spells and formulae, far from that. Black possessed an extensive practical background, her own opinions on any given topic, and an absolute inability to keep silent when she had something to say. It was endearing.

So, in between discussing theories and applications, they also grew to trade tea, sweets, and anecdotes. Professor would often clarify obscure aspects of Wizarding society, while Hermione entertained her with tidbits of Muggle knowledge. (Apparently, Black was a bit self-conscious about her lack of education on the topic, claiming backwards family traditions.) Sometimes Professor would even offer personal advice, though Hermione tended to ask for it sparingly: more often than not, it led to unpleasant realizations of her own character flaws. Black usually left her with all the tools to solve her problem, but it was herself who had to do all the work. Fair, of course, but always exhausting.

She knew that Black preferred coffee to tea but tended not to drink it on office hours because it made her leaps of logic absolutely impossible to follow. She knew the woman would always twirl her raven black curls when she was thinking, and after an hour of debating a particularly tricky topic, her head was often an absolute mess. She knew, intimately, the way Professor’s handwriting got progressively spikier as she got caught up in an idea, the letters seemingly gaining sentience. (She might have had to coax them to get into some semblance of order once or a dozen times).

They both knew, although they didn’t talk about it, that Hermione reminded Black of her younger self and, in turn, saw Professor as someone she wanted to be when she grew up.

* * *

“Sit. Have a cookie.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione performed a ridiculously thorough check for poisons and mind-altering substances. Black regarded her in amusement. The check had also given her an ingredient list which stated that the cookies were date-sweetened, with no added sugar, and basically as healthy as they could be.

This only made Hermione more suspicious. Black was notoriously known for her sweet tooth. Moreso, her own experience indicated that the average waiting time between her opening the office door and Black going on a rant about some unfortunate paper or bringing up an obscure theory was approximately four seconds.

Thirty had passed. Hermione sat slowly, her mouth crooking into a smile. In the unprecedented silence descended upon the DADA office, she could hear Black impatiently tapping her foot.

She took a bite of the cookie (tasty), just because she knew it would take her another five seconds, and asked: “What, have there been no new Arithmancy articles published since our last session?”

Black’s face twitched. “Yes there have, and one is _most atrocious_ , but—this won’t work on me, Granger. I’ve something I need to discuss with you.”

Hermione shrugged. She had a feeling another ‘unpleasant personal realization’ talk was on the horizon, but well, it was Professor. When she decided on something, it would happen, whether everyone else liked it or not.

Professor looked her straight in the eye and, in a most serious voice, said, “You’re grounded.”

Hermione couldn’t help it: she burst out laughing. “What? You’re not even my Head of House. And I didn’t break any rules. And what, precisely, do you mean by ‘grounded’?”

Black smirked at her, and Hermione had a concerning feeling that she was in deep, deep trouble.

“By ‘grounded’ I mean, _precisely_ , that I’m banning you from working on your project for a week.”

_What_. Part of Hermione realized that she must be looking ridiculous with her jaw hanging wide open, but she didn’t particularly care. Nor did she care how, exactly, Black was planning to enforce this: she was sure the woman would find a way. What she _did_ care about was finding out why exactly the witch thought it was a good idea, doing whatever she could to end this preposterous ‘grounding’, and resuming the work on her beloved project as soon as possible.

Okay, caution, she could do this. Slowly, she schooled herself and asked as calmly as she could manage, “Why?”

“Oh, I happen to have another assignment for you this week.”

Hermione raised her eyebrow again. She didn’t buy it.

Black continued. “The assignment is as follows: you are to get at least an hour of rest every day of the week. And by ‘rest’ I mean: no reading. No writing. No casting.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something about how ridiculous this was, but Black apparently had no patience for this and preemptively silenced her with a jinx. Dammit.

"I don’t really care what you do, go for a walk, chat with your friends, play some Exploding Snap for Merlin’s sake. But you _need_ this rest, Granger. I expect reports.

"Oh, and I’m imposing a curfew. No getting up before seven, no staying up after ten. I’m lifting your Prefect duties for the week, and before you ask, McGonagall has already signed off on it.

“Understood?”

Professor wasn’t smiling at the moment. If anything, she looked almost weary, annoyed in advance by the inevitable futile arguing.

Well, Hermione would provide her with the arguing. She was outraged, and she was almost done shaking off the silencing jinx. This was—this was humiliating. Hermione was a grown teen, she had proved herself more than capable with all the academical work. She had earned her right to be treated as an equal. This was—

“Absurd! What right do you have to talk to me like this? I can take care of myself, you know!”

“I know,” said Professor, and her voice was not the least bit patronizing.

“I also know that you don’t.”

That shut Hermione up. She took several breaths, rather resembling a fish out of water, but in the end decided against saying anything. Black seemed to have more to say.

“Look, Granger, I actually gave you the benefit of the doubt. You’ve been wearing yourself down for weeks now, what with your project and coursework and being a Prefect and this ridiculous notion of yours about over-preparing for your O.W.L.s. You could sit them tomorrow and get straight O’s and you _know_ that. I get it, it’s comforting to review things you already know. But this workload is not doing you any good and deep down, you realize it.”

Hermione wanted to protest, again,—surely she herself knew best what she was and wasn’t realizing,—but Black continued. “I’m estimating two weeks before the stress gets to you and you end up in Pomfrey’s wing. I will not condone it.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, and when she added, “Have another cookie”, it sounded much more like a command than an attempt at hospitality.

Hermione chewed on her second cookie obediently. This whole situation was bizarre, but she was starting to calm down a bit. She wasn’t going to say _everything_ Black was talking about was right, exactly—but she also couldn’t argue anymore that Professor wasn’t treating her as a competent individual. She was also starting to realize that her temper only made her sound more childish, which wasn’t really working in her favour right now.

The best thing she could do at the moment was to confront this as another analytical challenge. She was working hard, sure, but it didn’t feel like she couldn’t take it. It was… possibly true that she should have been getting more sleep, but she could manage it. Right?

Instead of lashing out again, she asked, “What makes you think so?”

Black seemed to appreciate her cooling down. She didn’t address it, but she answered, matter-of-factly: “Your theory work is as good as always, but your practicals have been getting worse. You’re too tense, it messes up your footwork when duelling and leaves you with less energy to concentrate on casting. You stopped talking about anything but research in our sessions. There are bags under your eyes, and yes, they really are that noticeable. Oh, and on every practical I oversee, your friends are looking at you with those forlorn puppy eyes which I assume to mean that you haven’t spent any time with them in at least a week. I don’t know, it could all be a coincidence, of course,” she added, emoting a thoughtful look with an evident undertone of sarcasm.

“But if this really is a coincidence,” she proceeded, and Hermione had a vivid impression of a cat playing with a mouse while somehow making it about said mouse’s own good, "It won’t be difficult for you to answer a question I have.

“When was the last time you did something not related to studying or school duties?”

Hermione tried to come up with an answer, she really did. But—she kept thinking back and back in time, and all that came up were endless rolls of parchment and quills and thinking about Arithmantic equations while patrolling the corridors. She could scarcely remember how she got ready for the day in the mornings or what she ate for meals, she was usually too caught up in mentally planning her schedule or thinking about homework. She kept going back in her memories until—

“Well, I suppose, when I caught up with all the textbooks for this year in August, I spent a couple days with my parents just lounging about. Watching telly, playing board games, going cycling, that sort of thing. What?..”

Black was chuckling, wrinkles gathering near her eyes. As Hermione watched, uneasy, her chuckling progressed to badly contained snorts until she was guffawing. She fished for a tissue to wipe her eyes. “What’s so funny?” Hermione asked defensively.

Black calmed down a bit and answered. “Granger, it’s _January_.”

Was it.

It was. And come to think of it, this probably wasn’t normal. In the silence that descended, Hermione took a couple deep breaths and tried to assess the situation, thinking on what Black had just told her.

She could almost hear a distinct _click_ in her mind when the pieces of their conversation came together, and, for the first time in ages, she felt something that wasn’t worry about another abstract problem. She felt a vague cloud of unpleasantness about her head, not exactly a headache yet but mild discomfort. She felt what Professor had told her, about her being tense, her shoulders seemingly trying to pull apart and push together at the same time. In her mouth, she felt the aftertaste of the cookie, date sweetness intermixed with slightly bitter cocoa.

In her heart, she felt immense guilt towards Harry and Ron and every other friend of hers because she must have had neglected them for ages. She hoped they could forgive her for that when she tried to fix this mess. Preferably very soon.

She felt _tired_. She felt hot moisture making its way down her cheeks. And when her shoulders started shaking, she felt, inside herself, a dam she didn’t even know existed break.

“I—I don’t know what to do, okay?! There’s so much going on and everyone _expects_ me to do my best in—bloody everything—and I don’t even—I can’t remember when I last did something just because I wanted to!”

She sniffed and immediately felt self-conscious. Black could be, often was, viciously caring, but she didn’t exactly _do_ conventional comforting. More often than not their personal discussions consisted of a heated debate on the topic, then of herself wandering off to mull over whatever Professor had said, and of begrudging thanks on their next meeting when Hermione inevitably realized Black was right. She hadn’t actually ever—yelled like a petulant teen, or broken down, and cried, and curled in the visitor’s armchair, hiding tear streaks on her face. She hadn’t even realized she had been this wound up.

She tried to school her features, not really succeeding, and started to ramble. “Sorry—I, just, please give me a moment, I…”

“Shush, Granger,” Black said, but there was no bite to it. She then shocked Hermione by adding, “I’m going to hug you now. Don’t die of terror.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. She started to lift her head, but then her vision was obscured by a curtain of black curls as Professor, slightly awkwardly, pressed Hermione’s head to her chest. Black smelled safe. She held her for a minute or two, as Hermione’s sniffs gradually stopped and her breathing grew calmer.

When a comfortable silence followed, and Hermione got herself more or less together, she couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So, you’re a softie. No surprise, that.” Black snorted and stepped away, but it didn’t feel defensive. The new sense of calm didn’t leave Hermione, either.

“Shush, Granger,” she said again, and Hermione smiled, wondering if she noticed she repeated herself. “Don’t you dare sully my reputation.”

Hermione smiled broader, sensing acutely the muscles tugging at her skin. Already she felt more alive than she did in the last—how many, five?—months, combined. Tomorrow, she would make up with Harry and Ron, rethink her study plans, and work on getting herself back to normal. Today, she only wanted to have more tea with the tasty biscuits and listen to Professor tell her stories about her past deeds, then get back to the tower for an early bedtime. She continued smiling as Black made her way into her chair, mid-way launching into a rant about how some people who send their articles to _Arithmancy Weekly_ really need to make use of proof-reading spells.

Hermione, for once, was happy. She could only put a fraction of what this meant for her into a heartfelt “Thank you, Professor.” But judging from the way Professor’s eyes glinted when she replied with a half-hearted “You owe me one, Granger,” she’d understood all that was left unsaid.


End file.
